


Fight Club

by bees_stories



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fight Club - Freeform, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, getting by, street fighter!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-20
Updated: 2014-08-20
Packaged: 2018-02-13 23:47:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2169948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set pre-series. The brothers are left to their own devices while John is working a job in a neighboring town. They're short on cash and Sam is a growing boy with a hollow leg. Dean remembers what's that's like, so when he finds a way to pad his wallet that doesn't involve fifteen minutes in a back alley with a stranger, he goes for it.<br/>A/N: Written for the hurt-comfort bingo prompt: 'fights' and the hoodie_time prompt: 'street fighter'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fight Club

***

Sam finishes his beer and rises from the table. He's got that eager-beaver look on his face that suggests he's looking forward to a long night with his head stuck in a book. Dad might be rousting vampires in the next town over, but he's entrusted the spadework for his next case, a genuine haunted house with a back story that could have come straight out of _Scooby Doo_ , to Sam and Dean. The local legends made a visit to Stonehurst Farm sound like a real thrill ride, complete with a risk of accidental decapitation. Entrusting them with the spadework is a big show of confidence on their father's part and Sam, in a rare display of cooperation, wants to prove it's not misplaced. "You coming?"

Dean shakes his head. The truth be told he's got other things weighing on his mind besides the things that go bump in the night. Like how he's going to pay for breakfast in the morning and lunch after that. They're short on cash, and the credit card Dad had left him is dangerously close to its limit. "Nah, you go ahead. I'm gonna have another beer and maybe play a little pool." 

Sam gives Dean a doubtful look. They'd hustled enough earlier to pay for the beer and burgers, but the action was strictly penny ante and now the crowd was thinning out for the night. He must figure that Dean's got other reasons for hanging around. The flirting waitress for one. Dean gives her a wink as he beckons her over, just to reinforce the notion. Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head and then he strolls out without another backwards glance, which is just fine as far as Dean is concerned, because now that his baby brother is gone, he has work to do. 

He looks around the room and considers his options. The guy at the end of the bar has been scoping him out for a good half hour. Fifteen minutes in the alley behind the bar could mean fifty bucks. If he goes home with the guy, depending on what he wants, it could be a hundred. But a hundred, while better than a kick in the teeth, is still small potatoes, and there's a different sort of action brewing that could earn him a lot more. 

He finds the two guys whose conversation he'd overheard on the way to the can and watches them get their stuff together, ready to pull out for the night.

 _The first rule of fight club is don't talk about the fight club._

The short blond guy had missed the memo. Either that or he'd had one beer too many. Whatever. He'd been blabbing to his pal loud enough for Dean to overhear. The pal had looked a little squeamish earlier, but now it looks like he's going along for the ride. Dean puts a couple of extra bucks on the table for the waitress as a consolation prize, and follows them out, smiling at the guy at the bar just in case the fight club angle doesn't pan out. 

He doesn't have far to walk, just down the street to a fitness club that is dark for the night. The two guys cut down another alley and let themselves in through an unlocked back door. Dean waits a full minute and then he follows into the gym. 

The place reeks of sweat and testosterone. Men, and a few women, are crowded around a ring where a pair of light-heavyweights are duking it out. It's bare knuckle stuff; no gloves or headgear. Just two guys stripped down to their jeans, bare chests gleaming as they pummel one another. 

"How do I get in on the action?" Dean asks the guy standing next to him. He has to shout to be heard over the noise.

"Fighting or betting?" the guy replies without taking his eyes off the ring. The slighter of the two fighters launches a sharp kick at his more muscular opponent and lands it solidly in his breadbasket. The big guy goes down hard and stays there. "Either way, it don't matter. See that guy in the trilby?" He points left of the ring. "Talk to him."

The crowd cheers as the defeated fighter crawls to his corner and is helped out of the ring. The winner bounces on his toes and grins as his hand is yanked into the air, declaring him the victor. His grin loses a little of its wattage as a new contender climbs over the ropes and begins to warm up. 

Dean muscles his way through the crowd. He reaches the man in the trilby hat but has to wait as the bettors lay down their cash. The little guy is scrappy. Dean mentally recounts the cash in his wallet. He could put down ten bucks, or he and Sammy can eat breakfast if his luck goes sour. He decides to hang onto his cash as insurance. "I want to fight," he says when the guy in the hat asks how much he wants to bet. 

Trilby Hat gives Dean the hairy eyeball. "You twenty-one?"

Dean's been twenty-one for almost a week. He'd tried to talk his dad into swinging by a DMV so that he could get a legit license just to commemorate the occasion. His dad had laughed and promised Dean a trip to Vegas once the work was caught up instead. "Sure. You want I.D.?" He reaches for his wallet. He's carrying a fake one that says he's twenty-five. 

The guy shakes his head. The less he knows about the fighters the better. "Twenty-five gets you into the ring," the man replies. Under the hat he has cauliflower ears and a deep scar under his right eye. His voice is raspy, like a punch in the throat had damaged his vocal cords. "Win, you get a hundred. Decide you want to fight again, you get two. Keep fighting, keep doubling. Lose and you get your twenty-five back in case you need a ride to the hospital."

"Fine." Dean empties his wallet of all but the emergency ten and hands over his twenty-five bucks. The guy points him at a doorway. "Locker room is that way. No shirt, no shoes. No belts, rings, or other jewelry."

"Rules for the fight?" Dean asks, more as a formality than anything else. It's not his first time in a fight club. He's sized the place up and has a pretty good idea what he's in for. 

"You fight to win," Trilby Hat replies. "Try not to kill your opponent. Other than that, there are no rules." 

"Fair enough." A guy jostles Dean's shoulder, eager to get his bet in before the bell. Dean pivots out of his way, mindful of the wallet in his hand. A crowd as thick and distracted as this one is is easy pickings for a sneak thief who didn't mind getting his ass kicked if he got caught. The wallet had been a birthday gift from Sammy and Dean would regret its loss. He tucks it into his inside jacket pocket and then heads for the locker room. 

The smell of wintergreen and menthol liniment nearly knocks Dean off his feet and burns at least a few hairs inside his nose. He takes a more cautious breath through his mouth, acclimating himself to the scent. A guy decked out in gray sweats with a towel wrapped around his neck approaches. "You're new here." 

Dean nods. "Yeah, just passing through." 

The guy nods back. "Routine's the same for everyone." He hands Dean a paddle-lock with a key sticking out of it. "Put your stuff in an open locker, then take a seat on the bench. I'll call you went it's your turn." 

There was only one guy ahead of him. Dean strips down to his jeans and takes a seat on the bench as he was instructed. The guy next to him looks to be about thirty. He has about twenty more pounds of hard muscle on him than Dean has, and an ugly expression. Dean smiles at him as he looks for potential vulnerabilities. 

The guy stares for a few seconds, sizing Dean up in return. "Nice guns, kid," he finally says and then his eyes flit to the doorway where another contender is getting the welcoming spiel. 

Outside, the crowd roars and a woman screams. At least it could have been a woman, Dean's not entirely sure as a few moments later, the guy who had won the bout he'd watched is carried in on a stretcher clutching his nuts. He rolls over onto his side and the guy in the sweats grabs a bucket, barely getting it into position before the poor sonofabitch pukes. 

It's not too late to back out, Dean tells himself. A couple of hours in a soft bed with either the waitress or the guy who'd been giving him the eye would definitely be preferable to getting the crap beaten out of him. But then he thinks about those hundreds of dollars multiplying, and Sammy, who's constantly hungry because he's going through a growing spurt, and the cost of cheeseburgers and Snickers Bars as another guy comes in, and knows, like it or not, he's going to see this through. 

The big guy doesn't last five minutes in the ring. He comes back cradling the right side of his face. 

_Glass jaw_ Dean thinks smugly as he springs to his feet. He gives everyone waiting a chirpy smile and then humming, _Eye of the Tiger_ to himself, he strides towards the ring.

Dean fights dirty and the crowd loves it. He sucker punches the reigning champ and grins at the thought of a hundred bucks keeping the emergency ten in his wallet warm. 

His grin dims a little when the next fighter comes through the ropes, but only for a few seconds, because it's a rush, being in the ring and hearing the crowd roar with appreciation. Dean ducks and dodges and then zooms in close enough to land a couple of quick fists against the ribs of a man-mountain who smells like he could be a kissing cousin to a Sasquatch. 

Sasquatch decides he's going to try a wrestling move. He scoops Dean into a bear-hug and squeezes the air forcefully out of his lungs as they dance around the ring. 

Dean reacts, all instincts. Big Foot might be a fictional creature, but Dad has trained him that size doesn't matter and everyone, no matter how big, has their weaknesses. He brings his knee up and then his foot down and stomps as hard as he can. Maybe it's a girlie move, but it works. Sasquatch lets go and Dean sucks air into his lungs before moving in for a counter-offensive. But Sasquatch doesn't go down easy. He's got big, meaty fists and when they land, and they do land, despite Dean's best efforts, they land hard. Ribs. Kidneys. A solid connection with the underside of his jaw that sends him reeling backwards until he's caught by the ropes.

Dean winces as he opens his mouth, not because it hurts, he's too geared up to feel pain, but because now he's going to have to come up with an excuse for the bruise. The body blows he can conceal, but the one to his face could potentially lead to awkward questions. He shakes his head, clearing it, wipes sweat out of his eyes, and goes back for more punishment, stumbling every couple of steps, giving Sasquatch the impression he's weakening. It's another cheap trick, but it works. The bigger fighter lets his guard down just enough to give Dean some breathing space. He uses strategy rather than brute strength and goes for pressure points; landing strikes at Sasquatch's knees, and then, when he starts to crumble, two-handed blows at the tops of his shoulders. Only then does Dean go in for the kill, punching the big man's face over and over again.

Sasquatch topples. 

The blood-thirsty crowd roars. 

He's got three hundred bucks. Six hundred would be better, but there's something to be said for being able to fight another day. He gives the crowd a bow, acknowledging their appreciation, and then he follows Sasquatch out of the ring, yielding to a new contender. 

Trilby Hat hands Dean his cash and a cell number and tells him he's welcome back any time. The guy in the locker room hands him an icy cold gel pack, which Dean gratefully presses to his jaw, and a clean towel. He sluices off in the sink and then gets dressed. When he walks back into the main gym, the crowd is cheering a couple of fly-weights, which is just Dean's luck. He pauses and watches the pair spar. They're like Bantam Roosters, fierce, despite their size, and they're not holding back. Either fighter could do him as much damage as Sasquatch had. There's already the possibility that he'll be pissing blood for the next couple of days as is, and another lucky punch could potentially land him in the hospital. And how would he explain that to Dad and Sammy?

As Dean walks home he cools down and he starts to feel his aches and pains. He's going to be stiff as a board in the morning if he doesn't take care of himself. There's a convenience store a block from the motel that still has its lights burning. He goes in, grabs a basket and fills it up with food for Sammy and Epson’s salts and Icy Hot and a few other odds and ends for himself. He pays with a well worn twenty, and walks out feeling like a man providing for his family and not a punk kid waiting for his dad to tell him what to do next and the boost of confidence puts a little bit of a spring in his step, at least enough of one to get him back to the motel.

Sam is asleep, his head cradled over a bunch of library books and photocopied pages of newspaper clippings. He rouses slowly, blinking owlishly as he rubs sleep from his eyes. "Dean, you're back." He sees the grocery sacks and perks up. "Is there food in there? I'm starving." 

_Growing boy_ , Dean thinks fondly as he remembers his own hollow leg at that age. Of course he's starving. They're gonna have to get him some new clothes soon too. The pajama bottoms Sam are wearing are riding his ankles.

Dean starts to hand over the sack with the food in it. "Make me a couple of sandwiches." He pulls the bag back at the last second. "And Sammy, touch my chocolate milk and I'll rip off your arm and beat you with it." He should smile to take the edge off the threat, but now that the blood-lust of the ring has worn off Dean's exhausted and he finds he actually means it. He figures that's the tired talking and heads straight for the bathroom, stopping long enough to snag his pjs from his duffel.

He makes the bath as hot as he can stand it and dumps in about half the bag of Epson's salts and a big cap of Mr Bubble. He avoids looking at his body as he strips. He'll have to eventually, but right now he doesn't want to see the damage.

Getting into the tub isn't easy. Stiffened muscles are already giving Dean grief, and the water is giving him thermal shock. He has to dance from foot to foot until he can stand it and then he slips under the foam up to his chin, sighing deeply as the heat penetrates straight through to his bones.

He stays there, playing with the bubbles and listening to Sam while he makes sandwiches and yammers on about some old coot who used to live on the edge of town. The old coot whose bones they'll have to dig up and burn once they're sure that nothing else more complex than a simple haunting is going on. Eventually Sam winds down and the bubbles pop, and Dean hauls himself out of a tub of lukewarm water.

It takes a little doing, but he nerves himself up to look in the mirror. The damage to his face isn't too bad. The strike had landed on the underside of his jaw. If he skips shaving for a day or two, no one should notice. His torso is a different story. There's a ring of rising bruises and small abrasions, and his ribs creak when he breathes too deeply. He takes a piss and looks down into the bowl. The water is pinkish, which isn't a surprise, the bruises on Dean's kidneys are making their presence known. Still he'll have to be vigilant and keep an eye out for signs of fever, just in case he's hurt worse than he thinks. 

But right now he doesn't want to think. Right now, he just wants to drink his chocolate milk and eat his sandwiches and call it a night. Dean hides his bottle of Mr Bubble in his duffel and then he curls up in bed with baloney and cheese and the Nesquick Bunny and listens to Sam snuffle and snore. It's been a rough night. His hands are sore and he aches dully all over, but he's provided for himself and Sam, and there's something to be said for that.

end


End file.
